


The Good Luck Charm.

by morwrach



Series: A Prowl of Wampuses [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (and a little bit of sex in a public place!!), A tiny bit of angst., Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Credence is besotted with Graves' masculinity, Fluff, Graves is a flashy showoff!, Graves' return to professional duelling., M/M, Mutual recovery struggles, Post-Canon Fix-It, Setting: NYC's Magical Duelling Club, Wampus tattoo!, Wizarding sports!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 05:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10298912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: Graves takes Credence to New York City's most prestigious magical Duelling Club to watch him fight, with the excuse that“Observation of combat is crucial to magical education.”Credence struggles to keep his mind on his studies...





	

_“Wands at ease!”_ Graves barks, as his practice-hex bounces off Credence’s shield-spell and leaps energetically around the room, dislodging a picture frame. Credence skids to a stop against his side, brow sheened with sweat and his long hair storm-tossed and wild.

They’ve been practicing Credence’s casting stances and footwork in the dining room with the turkish rug rolled back and the furniture pushed into the corner; Credence sliding soundlessly into different positions in his socks on the wooden floor, Mr Graves’ wingtips clattering as he weaved around him.

Graves considers his phrasing as Credence waits, expectantly. Months of practicing on Sunday mornings fuelled by black coffee and sugary faworki have paid off – his once clumsy student now has the balance and poise of a ballroom dancer, all muscle-memory and quick feet. And yet – there’s no fire in his motions, no intensity. Perhaps it’s no wonder that Credence fears unleashing that part of himself considering his past…

Clearing his throat, he begins:  
_“The great duelling master Callisto Veselovsky said that ‘one must go to duel as one would go to dance; one must go to duel as though one were going to war,’ a maxim I have always attempted to be true to”_  
Credence quirks a mischievous eyebrow, and Graves mock-scowls back before continuing _“despite my disdain for the foxtrot.”_  
  
_“You however,”_ he continues, fixing his scholarly gaze on Credence, _“have all the requisite grace of a dancer but none of the desperation of the warrior.”_

Credence makes as if to speak, dark eyes flashing with worry; but Graves cuts him off with a finger to his lips. _“It is a matter easily solved. What you need, my boy, is to study some combat up close.”_

Credence instinctively looks across at the little wooden duellers sparring across the windowsill, one black and one white, enchanted to dodge and dive ceaselessly. Graves follows his glance, frowning. _“You’ve outgrown those, my boy – they merely aids for beginners, and you have far outstripped their guidance.”_

He pauses.

_“How would you like to watch me fight?”_

 

***

 

Shuffling nervously into the tournament hall of The Metropolitan Meeting Of The Sons of Honor (' _Honor & Sons’ _ to the old-timers) Credence is struck with the same sense of nauseous awe that he first felt walking through the front doors of MACUSA. He pauses in the doorway to grasp at the enormity of the space, getting his elbow jostled by the crowd of punters flowing through the door alongside him. The hall is a vast cavern buzzing with activity - a high vaulted ceiling of frog-green tiles and mosaics yawns over the stands which rise up like steps either side of a central platform. Around the base of the dais, shabby bookies holler, shaking fat handfuls of paper slips whilst sleek officials inspect the duelling platform and cast anti-cheating charms. Credence quails – it had seemed like such a sensible plan for him to observe Mr Graves’ return to competition duelling, but when his mentor had excused himself to the changing rooms the wave of nerves had set in. He doesn’t belong here. He’s sure he stands out a mile and that someone is about to throw him out any moment, but no-one comes, no-one even gives him a second glance. He reminds himself of Mr Graves words: _“Observation of combat is crucial to magical education,”_ and steels himself. With trembling fingers, he smooths down his hair self-consciously, and makes for the stairway of the stands.

  
He begins to climb, eyes searching for the line of seats that Graves has recommended to him - the _“best view in the house,”_ but pauses with a hand on the golden rail to look down at the long platform which bisects the room. Just as his mentor had described, it’s dark wood with inlaid patterns, each of which have a special use and symbolism in duelling. He feels a sense of achievement recognising the sunburst in the very middle as _"the recontrétoile, the meeting point.”_ A huge circular window casts bands of bright afternoon light across the duelling platform, and the recontrétoile shines like a well-polished dime. High above it towers a chair with long, long legs where the referee sits expectantly, a wand in one hand, and a huge silver megaphone in the other.

  
A grandfather clock chimes dimly somewhere, and the megaphone bellows in response _“Take your seats Ladies and Gentlemen!”_  
Credence hurries to sit down, squeezing between two spectators, and wonders if he should have bought one of the mini flags the witches either side of him are clutching.  
  
There’s a rumble like a stormcloud as the referee clears her throat. The seats hum with anticipation.   
_“Our challenger today is a familiar face in the American leagues. A consummate professional back from a period of recuperation, Percival Graves!”_

  
The crowd roars as Graves emerges from the stairs at the end of the platform. He takes his place in the opening square - shoulders back, face firm, chin raised, like a history book gladiator, Credence thinks. He rakes his eyes over Graves’ duelling uniform – shirt, a sleeveless jacket, high-waisted black trousers, tall polished boots. The tight fit of the duelling jacket emphasises the planes of Percy’s chest, and makes a triangle of his torso from broad shoulders to nipped-in waist. Credence swallows hard, traces the line of glinting silver buttons which strain tantalisingly.

  
The megaphone blares out again: _“and defending his title, our reigning champion, from the Mulberry, Lower Manhattan, Angelo Sciacca!”_

  
Angelo Sciacca makes for an unassuming figure as he crosses to the centre of the duelling ground to shake Graves’ outstretched hand. The smart cut of his long-sleeved fencing jacket does little for his stocky build, and he’s so much shorter than Graves that he has to look up to meet his gaze. He cracks a roguish smile and murmurs something Credence can’t hear, at which Graves gives him an amused eyeroll. The Italian tips his head, a gentle mockery, and tugs on the forelock of his shining hair as he ambles back to his starting position at the other end of the platform.

  
The referee reads out the Rules of Combat, but Credence doesn’t catch a single word. His attention is completely occupied by watching Graves methodically roll up his shirt sleeves to the elbow. It’s a provocative move, Credence thinks, to taunt your opponent with vulnerable, uncovered flesh. He’s so preoccupied with watching the movement of muscles that it does not occur to him that Graves is also provoking _him_ for entirely dishonourable reasons. On Graves’ exposed forearm, his wampus tattoo leaps and snarls and bares its white teeth, revealing the restless, surging energy under the surface of its bearer’s calm exterior. His hard, coal-black gaze scours the crowd and Credence chases after it, feeling his muscles go weak when Graves finally finds him and minutely quirks an eyebrow, slightly inclining his head in recognition. A number of spectators in the nearby rows follow the gesture and turn to look at Credence, and he drops his gaze, feeling his face getting hot. Bringing his hand up to subconsciously to touch the handkerchief neatly folded in his breast pocket, he runs his fingertips over the raised embroidery of Graves’ monogram – arranged by the man himself that very morning. Like a favour to a jousting knight, Credence thinks, a love token. He feels a little thrill in his muscles – a warm electric jolt.

 _“En garde, gentlemen,”_ declares the referee through her megaphone.

  
Graves and Scaccia bow, and straightening up again raise their wands in salute, straight lines bisecting their faces. The crowd cheers. Dozens of little silver and red flags whip back and forth of their own accord.

  
For a few tense, silent moments nothing happens – the only sound in the room is the footfall of the two duellers as they pace back and forth, sizing up their adversary. Suddenly, with a flick of Sciacca’s wrist a trip jinx goes fizzing across the platform like a racing greyhound. Graves repels it smoothly, and the duel erupts into a fast-paced flurry of movement and magic.

  
Credence does his best to follow everything, reminding himself that he’s here to study. He tries to match fast action to book theory and to take mental notes. Sciacca moves with little kicks of his heels, hopping quickly and easily from foot to foot with frog-leg springs, ducking and weaving around Graves’ attacks. By comparison, Graves prowls with languid steps, taut muscles flexing evenly, countering his opponent’s fast flighty spells with a barrage of effortlessly directed counter-jinxes. His textbook-perfect stances are steadfast, immovable, Credence notes. Unintentionally, he commits to memory how the strong muscular lines of Graves’ body are accentuated by skin-tight fabric and constricted dodges. His heart beats erratically in his throat, and his blood thrums in his ears when Graves cracks stupefy like a whip. Sciacca is frozen, but only for a moment before he mumbles _“rennervate”_ and surges forward.

  
On the row in front of Credence sits a broad-shouldered sports reporter from _The New York Ghost_ , dictating their article to a Self-Writing quill, eyes fixed on the action in front of them. It speeds across the pages of their notebook, and Credence can’t help but listen attentively: _“Graves observes a fine position. His attacks are fully developed, hits are marvellously accurate. Scaccia’s parries are firm. Ripostes executed with precision as always. Juvenile spell choices.”_ Credence beams with pride.

  
Effortless and majestic, Graves smooths back a lock of hair with his spare hand whilst countering tarantallegra with spell that booms like cannon-fire. The expression on his face clearly says “is that all you’ve got?” and something burns inside Credence’s chest to look upon it. Scaccia’s lip twitches in an instinctive response.

 _  
“Level with me, old man!”_ chimes Scaccia, _“Are you always such a grummy bluenose or are you just in need of some nookie?”_

  
Graves scowls, and Scaccia laughs, darting away with slippery steps, unleashing jelly-legs curse in his wake. The older man wobbles slightly, before kicking it away derisively.

 _  
“Graves’ attacks losing precision,”_ dictates the reporter casually, _“confirms rumours of the injuries to his wand arm at the hand of Grindelwald."_

Credence feels a pang of sadness – Percy hadn’t mentioned ongoing problems, but looking at the grip of his wand hand, he thinks he can spot an almost imperceptible shake, and Percy’s jaw is clenched tightly, the same way he does when he reads the front pages of the morning newspaper.

  
Graves’ backhand counter spell falls short of its target, and Sciacca’s sharp burst of white light slices across Graves’ right hand with a ferocious ripping noise. With a grunted curse, Graves lets go of his wand. It falls from his grip to clatter upon the hard wood of the platform. Credence lets out an audible gasp, gripping his seat with white knuckles. The wand rolls away from Graves outstretched hand, coming to rest under Sciacca’s foot. In one brisk movement, the Italian kicks the wand off the platform, and Credence watches its fall with despair. Time seems to slow as it disappears into the darkness and out of sight.

  
  
Immediately, Sciacca presses the advantage, his determined steps forward forcing Graves into a speedy retreat backwards. Graves’ face betrays his inner doubt, and Credence feels slightly sick – he’s never seen Percy look vulnerable in public. With an elated whoop, Sciacca scores a hit which strikes Graves clean in the middle of the chest in a burst of tangerine light. As he turns to the crowd to celebrate, Graves makes eye-contact with Credence, a brightness in his coal-black gaze – and winks. It’s a sly, self-assured expression, and sends a guilty flood of heat straight to Credence’s groin. As Sciacca turns back to the fight, the cunning expression is quickly replaced by one of studied resignation.

 _  
“Solis occasum!”_ Sciacca calls out musically, and lunges forward.

  
Suddenly, Graves pushes his palm hard against the empty air, and Sciacca’s is thrown backwards in a high arc. His body hits the ground with such force that the thudding crack of his spine making contact with the dais echoes deafeningly across the crowd. Next to Credence, spectators are gasping and gesticulating. He feels shaken, a shock which quickly melts into glowing admiration for Graves, who stands looking over in Sciacca’s direction with a mild and imperious expression his face, as if he didn’t just throw someone bodily across the room with wandless magic. Amid a cloud of chalk dust, Sciacca weakly raises his wand arm in the air, empty palm displayed to the judge.

 _  
“Sciacca concedes defeat,”_ announces the referee-witch, _“Graves is victorious.”_

  
A cheer erupts from the stalls around Credence, who finds himself whooping and clapping and beaming with delight.  
_“Hit on all sixes for Graves! Graves back on form!”_ he hears the reporter dictate in front of him, and he claps so hard that his palms sting.

  
Graves crosses the platform with long strides, and Credence can see the wampus tattoo roaring majestically as its bearer shakes hands with the man on the ground. He can see Sciacca talking, but his words are too quiet to hear from the stands. Whatever he’s saying, it makes Graves scowl and then grimace in response. In one fluid motion he’s bringing his hand to his mouth and tearing off the leather glove with his teeth, a snarl of white canines which rips an involuntary and too-loud whimper from Credence’s lips. Graves spits the glove onto the ground before stepping over his fallen opponent and descending the steps at the side of the platform.

 _  
“Next time, old man!”_ cries Scaccia to the empty air, _“I’ll have you!”_

  
The words fall on deaf ears – Graves is already weaving his way through the crowd with a towel around his shoulders; evidently basking in the applause and relishing dismissing the clustering sports reporters with a flick of the hand. He looks noble, magnificent, Credence thinks, like a king, like a god – the sweat of his brow like a victor’s wreath. He’s so lost in his reverie that Graves has to call out _“Credence, come on”_ to rouse him – to raise him up on shaking legs and wobbling feet to follow him out of the hall – a lovestruck courtier.

 

***

 

As soon as Graves pulls the heavy green curtains around the changing booth, Credence is pressing up against him: a storm of unbalanced limbs and restless stroking fingers, a blur of soft velvet jacket and silky hair. Against his neck, Graves can feel Credence’s hot breath coming in familiar little gasps, half-panting for air. He allows himself a moment of smug satisfaction before putting an arm around Credence’s trembling form and pulling him flush against his body. The strangled yelp which he emits as Graves’ strong thigh presses between his legs is the final piece of the puzzle of why his protégé has been so quiet and fidgety since the duel.

 _  
“Enjoyed watching me beat that whelp, did you?”_ he murmurs into Credence’s ear.

  
The gentle creature in his arms nods frantically, hiding his embarrassed face in Graves’ shoulder, a completely adorable gesture. Graves moves against him experimentally – and with that tiny push, Credence’s barely-controlled lust overpowers his shyness. He grinds desperately against Graves’ thigh, his breathing becoming laboured and ragged in a matter of seconds.

 _  
“Fuck,”_ Graves curses breathily.

  
Credence’s surprising lack of restraint is intoxicating. Just as he’s begun to come down from the glowing, victorious high of the duel, the validation of Credence’s desperate desire for him sweeps Graves into a new kind of ecstasy. Mercy Lewis, how he wants to have him right here, right now, with his blood thrumming from the fight. His muscles twitch to overpower Credence, to trap his inexperienced hands and show him how a _man_ touches, to put his tongue to him and coax out louder moans, agitated sobs. He pictures his boy spread out on the changing booth's chaise longue, fucked out, a happy flush across his face, cheeks wet with tears, an angelic smile across his lips… Without thinking, he meets Credence’s thrusts. The loud moan which echoes around the room hits him with a flash of guilt. Here he is, moments away from glutting his carnal urges in his club whilst Credence has only recently summoned the courage to fuck in the daylight. He detaches himself from the younger man carefully, ignoring the heartrendingly sad little noise that he makes at the loss of contact.

  
_"Wouldn't you rather go home, lovely?"_ he ventures, as gently as he can, tucking Credence’s wave of black hair behind a cold elfin ear. Credence doesn’t say a word – just softly but insistently shakes his downturned head, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of Graves’ jacket.  
  
_“Credence?”_ he presses, firmly lifting the younger man’s face with a finger under his chin. Credence opens his eyes slowly, nervously. His gaze is dreamy and unfocused, rapidly hardening into a cowed expression of shame and nerves. He looks terribly vulnerable, Graves thinks, and terribly kissable.

 _“Credence,”_ he begins gently, stroking his knuckles over the apple of Credence’s cheek. His skin is so soft under his fingers – impossibly soft. _“Believe me when I say I’d very much like to have my way with you -”_

 _“I want you,”_ Credence whispers out, cutting him off, and then, loudly, bravely blurts out: _“I want you. Here”_

  
A throb of heat, a throb of power, strains against Graves’ ribs to hear him say it so plainly. He finds himself kissing Credence harder than he’d intended, as if a little force might express how proud he is with lips alone. He lets himself get lost in Credence, impossibly lovely Credence - tendrils of the blackest shining hair threaded through his fingers, the press of pale hands against his duelling jacket, hot uneven breath and sharp little teeth grazing his lip. _Merlin,_ how the feeling of those sharp little teeth undoes him. He is dimly aware of Credence’s hands gripping his shoulders tightly as if he’s trying to reassure himself that Graves is real. The muffled sound of the door opening is audible from beyond the curtain, the clink of taps and sinks, the ebb and flow of conversation, but Credence seems completely oblivious, lost in the embrace.  
  
The high needy noises against Graves’ mouth pull him away to half-heartedly cast a muffling spell. Credence bobs restlessly on the balls of his feet beside him, looking ravished already. His tie is askew and his shirt is half-untucked, the knuckles of his forefinger sucked into his perfect mouth. He’s so beautiful, heavenly – and it’s all Graves can do to not devour him then and there.

  
Then again, why not? poses Graves’ inner voice in an intellectual tone. He buries his face into Credence’s neck and nuzzles his shirt-collar open, gently fastening his teeth around the supple, pale, unmarked neck beneath. When he bites down, warm breath and hot velvet tongue, Credence lets out a satisfyingly unfettered whimper, limp under his grip like willing prey. He’s so pliable, so willing, and those noises, half-breath, half-moan are addictive. Graves bites down harder, encompassing as much of Credence’s neck as possible. A hot swell rises inside him, somewhere between body and brain, to feel the thrum of Credence’s blood and nerves where his teeth press. In the tense grip of his jaw muscles lies the capability to bite so much harder, to draw blood. He relishes the struggle with his own yearning held at bay by his self-restraint. Credence’s frantic moans echo around them, startled and guttural, instinctive and uncontrolled.  
  
Graves pulls away slowly, dragging Credence’s moist flesh from his mouth until he holds a very last morsel between his front teeth. He worries at it, making a calculated husky growl which he knows affects Credence terribly – and is not disappointed. True to form, the young man makes a breathy noise of longing, big doe eyes full of an excited fearfulness. Graves lets up his hold on Credence’s upper arms, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and steps back to admire his handiwork, running his fingertips along the wonky indentations of his teeth, a braille of possession. Credence watches him with an expression of reverence and glowing admiration, which Graves is not entirely convinced he deserves.

 _  
“Please,”_ Credence says in a choked sob, reaching for the fastenings of Graves’ belt. _“Please fuck me.”_

With shaking fingers, he moves Graves’ free hand down to his ass, and then a little farther. Graves swallows hard – Credence is full of surprises today, it seems.

“Please,” Credence begs again, entreating and demanding. Graves meets his lips and kisses him soundly and thoroughly, swallowing the little fragmentary noises as he strokes Credence’s entrance through the fabric of his pants. He can feel cold fingertips undoing the buttons of his fly, and in one swift decisive gesture, he sweeps the younger man off his feet and deposits him on the chaise longue – white skin against rich, wine-red silk.

  
Graves has barely got two fingers inside him before Credence is coming with a broken gasp, his head thrown back against the cushions and his eyes flickering white and ghostlike. The older man withdraws, casts the required cleaning spells with the smallest effort of his mind, presses soft kisses to the top of his boy’s head. He stretches, clicks the bones of his neck, and leans back to regard his boy properly, basking in his triumph. Credence looks dazed, flushed, and to no small extent embarrassed, but contented and finally sated. A happy smile plays across his bitten lips, and he looks at Graves with soft, shy eyes. Oh, but what a tender thing Credence is, Graves reflects, too tender by far for a man like him.

  
He smooths his lover’s crumpled shirt front under one broad palm, and begins to steadily button the open shirt. Of course, it would be so much more efficient to call on wandless magic, but there’s an intimacy to doing it in the no-maj fashion, and besides, he’s enjoying how Credence is still lightly trembling, making those happy little humming noises to himself.  
  
_“Laundry collection!”_  
  
A brusque elven voice breaks through their idyllic reverie, and Credence jumps to his feet, half falling over as he summons his underwear and slacks from where they pool at his feet with an upward flick of his hand and a murmured spell. Graves laughs, a full belly laugh – and ducks his head out of the curtains to address the housekeeping elf.  
  
“I’ll take my uniform home today, Boon.”  
  
The elf glances at the curtain, and squints, before muttering _“Suit yourself”_ and shuffling away with his creaky trolley, grumbling _“...no faith in Boon’s capabilities...”_  
  
To his mild dismay, Credence is almost entirely dressed - the picture of smart innocence - by the time Graves turns his attention back to the booth. He knots Credence’s tie with a practiced hand as the younger man babbles effusively about the different hexes and jinxes and footwork used in the duel. Graves suppresses a smirk, smoothing along the velvet shoulders with both hands.

 _  
“There,”_ he declares efficiently, _“No-one will be any the wiser.”_

 

***

A great many people in the club appear to be the wiser. Once Graves’ has changed clothes with an impatient flick of his wand, they emerge from his private booth to a small audience of duellers and curious house elves. A couple of witches preparing for the next duel smile brightly, and a little too knowingly for Credence’s nerves. As they pass the glittering main bar Sciacca turns in his chair to catch Credence’s eye, takes an amused sip of his cocktail, and winks. Credence is burning up by the time they reach the foyer. He knows for certain that his irrepressible blush is colouring his cheeks and his ears and his neck, and he can’t seem to walk properly. Graves is all politeness and easy confidence beside him, exchanging niceties with spectators and staff, his hand on his protégé’s elbow steady and unshakeable.  
  
_“Ah, Percival – I thought you’d already left.”_ declares the Floo-Porter deferentially.  
  
_“I got waylaid.”_ Graves offers smoothly, placing a firm hand on Credence’s shoulder.  
  
As a look of awkward realisation crosses the Floo-Porter’s face, Credence pleads desperately with the tiled floor to swallow him up then and there.  
  
  
Percival Graves holds the title of _Honor and Sons’_ Reigning Champion for three months. When he’s pressed by reporters from _The New York Ghost_ and _The Duellist_ , he attributes his success to _“a good luck charm which accompanies me to every match.”_ At his side, wrapped up in a silver and black scarf emblazoned with Graves’ tournament crest, Credence practically glows with joy.

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for you, my dearest volvi! <3
> 
> If you'd like to find me on tumblr, I'm nettlekettle.tumblr.com :)


End file.
